It's a New World
by Sleia
Summary: Harry had never imagined himself as the Master of Death. Then again, he had never imagined himself meeting Salazar Slytherin, or attending Hogwarts with him either. Or, well, fighting against a perfectly sane Voldemort. Luck was never on his side.


Even before opening his eyes, Harry knew where he was. A familiar mist enveloped him, and in the distance came the whistle of the Hogwarts express, wheels clattering against the tracks. He had returned.

It had been all too easy to place a glamour that tinted his eyes purple, made his hair straight instead of unruly and added a few inches to his height. Mimic that aristocratic drawl, that imperious stance, and the arrogant gaze—and voila! He was the perfect body double. The pain of getting stabbed was nothing new. All he really had to do was to relay the words he had been given, and the Draught of Living Death did the rest for him, enough so that he passed all the coroners' tests with flying colours.

They were just two boys, barely of age, and they had crafted such a bright future for those around them, heedless of their own sacrifices. This was the least he could do for them. At least both of them would have peace, after a fashion.

Harry had Apparated from his grave when the dirt had settled, leaving a carefully placed muggle repelling charm on the coffin so that no one would be tempted to exhume his supposed remains. Once everything was well and truly settled, when the one he had masqueraded as was safely ensconced in a small rural village a few nations away and the other had successfully concluded the first ever peace summit, he had decided to leave. The ones he cared for would do well enough without him, and he had been more than ready to leave for his next great adventure before he got too attached.

He looked around the train station. Dumbledore had never dropped by after his first arrival—from then on, it had always been Death and him, clothed in the Cloak of Invisibility, wielding the Elder Wand and bearing the Resurrection Stone on his finger.

Speaking of which, the mists dissipated slightly, revealing Death.

"Master."

Harry frowned. No matter how many times he asked the being to call him Harry, Death never listened. He wasn't deserving of the title, not when he had only gathered the Hallows by coincidence, and not when he had never asked for it and still did not wish for it. Irritatingly enough, the contrary being only took it as proof that this opinion made him worthier of the title.

Death offered him a reconciliatory smile.

"Ready for the next world?"

Harry gave him a resigned smile in response. Like he could say no. This immortal life was starting to weary him. All the people who had become precious to him would always leave for the one place he could never follow them to.

"Death is eternal." the being said wryly, guessing his thoughts. And so are you.

Harry shrugged. He would continue searching for something that would allow him to pass on nevertheless. The moment he gave up was when he truly lost all hope for a true death.

"What's my next destination?"

Death shot him an amused look at his attempt to change the conversation, but nonetheless answered.

"It's one that's close to your heart, even if it isn't exactly the same one." Harry blinked in surprise. "It's one of those universes that branched off as a result of a different decision. Not too different from the one you know, but I'll leave it to you to discover the differences."

Before Harry could reply, the mist faded away completely, revealing a sight he thought he would only see in his dreams. From the red velvet lining of the seats, the shining brass luggage racks, to the hubbub of tearful parents bidding eager children farewell out on the platform—the vivid detail made it all too clear that this was no dream.

He couldn't believe his eyes. He could see the heartbreakingly familiar red mops of hair, signature of the Weasleys. Hermione was there too, with a thick book in one hand, the other lugging a heavy trunk—no doubt filled with books. Neville was shuffling uncomfortably next to his grandmother, his toad peeking out of his pocket. Dean. Thomas. Even Malfoy. There were dozens of faces he remembered, and some he didn't, and he drank them all in desperately like one dying of thirst.

Death, unseen, whispered smugly to him.

"Welcome back to Hogwarts."

* * *

><p>It had been a long while since anything had rendered Harry so utterly speechless, but seeing his long-lost friends alive and healthy certainly did it. The differences Death mentioned worried him, but he needed to see if there was anything he could do to help this world defeat its Voldemort.<p>

Death had returned to whichever realm he belonged to, leaving him a slightly battered leather trunk. He absently flicked a Privacy Charm at his compartment door to ensure no one would disturb him. With a brush of his magic, the trunk opened for him, revealing that it was, as always, larger on the inside than on the outside. This time it had seven compartments.

The first contained his schoolbooks for the year along with parchment, quill and other odds and ends required for school, including his old Firebolt. Lockhart was grinning and waving from the cover of his textbooks, and it was with faint annoyance that Harry realized that the fraud would be teaching the Defence Against the Dark Arts classes this year. There were several newspaper articles too: LONGBOTTOM: OUR SAVIOR and BOY-WHO-LIVED DEFEATS THE DARK LORD! among other assorted titles.

* * *

><p><em>…Investigations are pending on how exactly a one-year-old has achieved what adult wizards have failed at, but the result remains the same. <em>

_THE DARK LORD IS DEAD._

_It was just yesterday, on 31 October, 1981, that the Dark Lord breached the ancient Longbottom wards, murdering Frank and Alice Longbottom, both lauded Aurors who had triumphed against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named several times (See pages 10-13 for an account of the Dark Lord's defeats at their hands). But in an unprecedented turn of events, the Avada Kedavra failed when he turned his wand upon young Neville Longbottom, beloved child of Frank and Alice. It is believed that the Killing Spell reflected back upon the Dark Lord, bringing a much-awaited end to his terrorizing reign…_

_...Potter, Black and Lupin have once more thwarted the Dark Lord's twisted ambitions. On 5 August, 1980, the Dark Lord attacked numerous shops at Diagon Alley. Death Eaters flung Unforgivables at any who resisted while the Dark Lord himself went after famed Ollivanders, who was fortunately saved in the nick of time by our three darling Aurors (See pages 5-7 for their joint achievements; pages 8-9 for a recount of their school years), who managed to keep the Dark Lord at bay long enough for reinforcements to arrive. The Dark Lord was forced into retreat as the tides turned, and the death toll this time includes 15 Death Eaters. Blessed be the Light!..._

_…__The wizarding world has broken out in full-blown celebrations, with Diagon Alley crowded from start to end with drunken partygoers. With the Dark Lord's fall inspiring a sudden spate of merrymaking, butterbeer and Firewhiskey are flowing endlessly at all pubs (3 sickles a pint at Hog's Head! Buy now before goods run out) and the revelry appears to be neverending._

_The Dark wizarding families have finally had their comeuppance, with riots occurring at the Lestrange and Carrow estates. "We are redoubling efforts to capture Fenrir Greyback, known mass murderer and berserk werewolf, among other Dark creatures. The recent extinguishment of the Gwyll vampire haven is a testament of the importance we place on eradicating all the Dark elements in our society." Says a ministry spokesperson…_

* * *

><p>Neville being the Boy-Who-Lived wasn't so much of a surprise. It was mere chance that had led to him being chosen. But it was strange to consider that Remus wasn't a werewolf in this world. It was an unspoken rule that the Ministry would never hire those they deemed to be mere creatures, ability to use magic aside, which was also why Remus had had his application as an Auror denied back in his first life.<p>

A sheaf of parchment, shoved messily into a corner, caught his eye. It was his identification documents. Apparently his name here was Harry Evans, previously home-schooled—a state that would have continued had he not lost his parents to one of the Death Eater attacks. He was joining Hogwarts as a second year. Belatedly, he de-aged himself to his twelve-year-old visage before someone caught him in his older guise and placed a glamour over his scar with a flick of his wand. His hair was no longer as untamable as it used to be, and given the unusual shade of green his eyes had taken on after that second killing curse, he probably wouldn't be recognized as his counterpart. Just in case, he shifted his features a little, just enough to be unrecognizable, and added a few inches to his height.

The second compartment contained basic potions ingredients and a few more rare ones, including a bezoar. There was also a standard sized pewter cauldron. A few ready-made potions were there as well—he spied a tiny phial whose contents were molten gold, another containing what seemed like sludge.

The third contained clothes, from muggle ones to his Hogwarts robes. The fourth had books, with topics ranging from runes creation to elemental spells and Eastern magic. The fifth contained heaps of Galleons, Sickles and Knuts, enough to tide him through his Hogwarts education and possibly a couple years beyond. The sixth was a pleasant surprise. His throwing knives were in it, as sharp as he remembered them to be. He had thought them lost after he had left that world. And the seventh compartment was akin to Moody's, ten feet deep, and utterly bare.

The Hallows were not in the trunk, but they did not need to be. They would appear whenever Harry willed them to.

Harry strapped a wand holster to his arm and retrieved a book. Then he closed the trunk, levitating it onto the rack and sat down, deep in thought.

While he missed his best friends, he understood that the Hermione and Ron of this world were not the same as the ones he had once known. So he was hesitant to approach them. What he needed was information: information on Voldemort and whether he had chosen to create Horcruxes this time, or had used some other means to attain immortality; information on the people in this world, on the culture and its differences—well, on whatever he could get his hands on.

For now, he could probably leave things to the Boy-Who-Lived of this world while he conducted his research.


End file.
